Owner	Pose
Clint Barton	And there it is. The aftermath of a job well done. There was no dramatic breaking of windows, of bursting through doors rendering them to kindling, no monologues before the targets were taken out, erased from life but not from memory, and certainly no screeching of tires in the departure. It was oddly silent, with little more than a footfall first on gravel, then upon stone, and wooden floor. The aftermath, however, once discovered? Noise. Sound and fury. Helicopters. Ambulances and police cars blinking their bright red and white (and blues) such that the entire location was lit up like an amusement park at night. Thing is? Those who came and went in the dark are good. Very, very good. *** At first, the news reports are silent. Then, headlines without the benefit of moving from an inside page first. Questions with no answers. An older Russian man in a suit sits behind a desk in an office building. His tie is pulled down a little, his top button undone. Quiet conversations that could well be about the business at hand; Vasily Dmetriev, CPA. Money, accounts.. insurance. A phone call is made to a burner phone, and the phone buzzes insistantly.
Barney Barton	The burner that buzzes insistently in one pocket, is a different one than, well, the one he keeps in his other pocket. Takes a few of them to keep things straight and keep safe. Since the news broke, that little niggle in the back of Barney's mind that was tell him that all of this was more than it appears to be has grown into a full blown paranoia that it's all about him. Is a person paranoid when they're really out get him? Where he might normally be at his favorite bar having a few beers, he's as far away from that bar as he can possibly get. Tucked away in a cheap 'pay by the hour' hotel complete with roaches, mold and an old television with nothing much worth watching unless 'pay per view' porn is what a person's looking for, paid in cash under an assumed name, he answers. "Yeah?" Just that and nothing more.
Clint Barton	First, an annoyed, impatient drumming of fingers plays upon the top of the desk until the moment the call goes through and Vasily hears the voice he's expecting. "There is key in barn," the thick Russian accent might be difficult to understand initially, but it does smooth out, if only a little. "There, follow instructions for money. Was good job." The barn in question is about 50 miles away, headed north. A list of numbers appear upon the text window, all encrypted and coded such that only two people in the world truly know what it means. There is a pause before, "I may call you again. Enjoyed business." There, at the same time, at the location of the multiple homocide, CSI is just beginning its task. Smart, subtle clues is an art form; never too much, never too little. Fragments, easily missed things in the moment, even for trained killers. "I am certain will be hearing from us soon." *click* The line goes dead, not inviting too much conversation. Here was the monologue, left only for one man. A warning? A promise? In this case, one and the same? The lights of the parking lot flicker; it's late, and the X-Shop that is located just across the way from the motel is closing. Traffic is dying down, not that there was a lot to begin with, but now, only one, two cars. The walls are paper thin, and one more benefit of the motel can be gleaned: It charges by the hour.
Barney Barton	Time to go. Just a beat to forward the numbers on the screen to his /one/ of his other burners. Those who leave in the dark can be good as well. Very, very good. It only takes Barney a minute, probably less, to gather up the few things he needs to head out. His belongings are simple, he's traveling light. A simple backpack filled with some necessities like protein bars, some bottled water, a first aid kit that goes a little beyond the norm, a compass, a pair of binoculars with night vision. Nothing that will weigh him down or slow him down. It gets tossed over one shoulder. Of course he'd just be 'Shot' without his crossbow as a Trick up his sleeve. He chose a room on the second floor for two reasons, one it can't easily be seen into from the streets and two, it's not that far of a leap to the ground from the window. That's the point of exit he takes. His motorcycle, an old beat up thing kept running only by his ability to jerry-rig things that go wrong, isn't in the lot. It's through the wooded area that's just behind the hotel. It's only a short jaunt through a small grassy area before he hits those woods. Once in the woods, he removes the SIM from the first burner and utterly destroys the phone under his booted foot. Paranoid - not if they really are out to get him. Barney Barton can move fast and silent when he wants to. Tonight he wants to. It's a ten minute trek through those woods before he reaches the old abandoned house with a shed out back that's seen better days. It's the shed he's aiming for, the place he's kept his bike hidden from easy view.
Clint Barton	Barney Barton, aka TrickShot is good. He's very, very good. Being a one-man operation definitely has its pros, but also its cons. He can go where ever and when ever he wishes; his success or failure is on him. But, no matter how many contacts he may have, there is very little that compares to this particular group of people, the Russian mob. Miles worse than the pockets of Bratva in the different cities. The motel was a good choice; they don't know he's there. The phone call wasn't one for tracking but rather, that belief that the last sound Barton will hear is his voice, even if he doesn't know it yet. The run through the woods only underscores how quiet and deadly the merc can be. Only, perhaps there's a difference, a toying with the 'running from' as opposed to the 'running towards'. The lab truck with the PD's CSI logo printed on the side is busy. Point of Care, immediate results are beginning to trickle in. Identifications are made, prints lifted and put through IAFIS and all DNA found, from blood to the hint of a hair running through CODIS. There is one organization now that is out for him, perhaps. Soon enough, there will be two. Breaking beyond the woods, out to that small clearing with the weathered, shabby shell of a house and the leaking, non-descript, gang-graffitied shed, all remains silent. Beyond his hearing, beyond his immediate knowledge as Barney makes the relative safety of the garage, there is a message that is transmitted amongst the airwaves. POI: Sergei Abramov, Igor Vladmirov, and Barney Barton. For the murder of State representative Olsen Garry, his wife, and college-aged son, home for break.
Barney Barton	Barney's too smart to believe he's in the clear just because he made it to his bike, far too smart. There's nothing he can do about the sound of it rumbling to life, but once it does he's quick to put the place behind him. He's heading for that barn. But not to collect anything that may have been left there for him. He won't get close enough to do that. In fact, he won't get close enough to be seen by anyone that might be waiting. No, his goal is to observe from afar using the binoculars in his little 'go bag'. Some might call the move foolish and maybe it is, but he needs to be /sure/. Currently he isn't and maybe going there won't give him any more answers than he already has, but he has to try. Unanswered questions are a good way to end up dead. If he makes it that far, the bike will be left hidden off the road far enough from the barn that noise from the engine wouldn't alert anyone there to his approach. Sticking to the shadows the best that he can, utilizing the cover of trees and tall grass whenever he can, he'll get just close enough to settle in to watch until he has his answers or it's clear that he isn't getting them.
Clint Barton	False sense of security? Perhaps. Or, more likely, the feeling of 'this might be too easy' which leads to paranoia is present and hanging over every action. Towns over, cars are rolling. Great long black cars that look official are taking to the long, country road that has no exits but for the occasional dirt road that either leads into wooded areas as fire roads, or into the fields dotting the landscape. Barney's movement to the barn is stealthy, silent even to the point where deer don't immediately realize that he's there until they catch his scent on a shift of breeze. By then, if he was hunting them, it'd be too late. Finding a point that is slightly higher ground, but not obvious enough as a 'Oh hey look, this is where he'd go!' spot, the merc can settle down. The moon is at half, with the cloud cover obscuring some of the stars; partly cloudy. No hint of rain, however. The landscape is dry. Small mercies. There, in an undisclosed amount of time, though still under cover of night, those cars' headlamps can be discerned as they travel the main route, even if the crossbowman is several hundred yards in.
Barney Barton	Barney takes one look back, just a quick calculation as to how fast if he's /really/ moving that he can make it back to his bike. Then it's a check to one side, the the other, mentally calculating ways out that might not include the bike. He didn't have one when he stole that one, it won't be a great loss if he has to leave it behind. He has his pack and his crossbow, it's all a boy needs. The headlights, however, are all the answer he needs. At least in his mind. There wasn't supposed to be anything here but a key. Does he dare creep close enough to try and hear any of the exchange between the occupants of the vehicle when they exit?